


Our Doubts Make Us Traitors

by LogicalBookThief



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Injury Recovery, Kissing, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Star Trek Beyond, Sharing a Room, Star Trek Beyond Spoilers, both emotionally constipated, snarky space gays, spones - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-08-07 11:34:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7713439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LogicalBookThief/pseuds/LogicalBookThief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dealing with what did and didn't occur on Altamid leaves McCoy incapable of sleeping. Paying his most recent patient a visit seems to be the only cure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Doubts Make Us Traitors

**Author's Note:**

> Finally, after wanting to write something with these dorks since first watching Beyond, I've managed to pool a bunch of ideas into a mostly coherent fic.
> 
> Some of the plot based on a post about scrapped scenes of the movie that dealt with McCoy's coming to terms with the reality of picking up a weapon as a man who swore to do no harm.
> 
> I hope ya'll find it enjoyable.

At dusk, the nebulous cluster surrounding Altamid shone bright with wisps of stars blotting ink-black streaks. Beautiful, sure, in the same way a blazin' wildfire looked pretty from a distance, not so much with it licking at your heels.

Like a shroud, the evening had swallowed the sun whole, and in its absence, the temperature plummeted. Which wouldn't have made their predicament so critical, mused McCoy, if not for the injured Spock lying aside of him, shivering with full-body convulsions.

McCoy's habit of calling him "cold-blooded" had bitten them both in the ass; Vulcans had a higher core temperature than humans, and cooped up in the _oh-so-fascinating_ cave Spock had insisted on exploring, warmth was a necessity they sorely lacked. That unfortunate development, coupled with acute blood loss, had Spock borderline hypothermic.

Half-shielding the Vulcan from brisk winds pouring through the cavern's gaping mouth, McCoy curled himself around Spock, sharing what heat he could muster. Currently, the normally vocal first officer was too compliant (and unconscious) to complain about the contact.

"Fickle Vulcan biology," McCoy huffed irascibly. "One minute it's saving your ass, the next it's your downfall."

No retort. No comment on preferring Vulcan biology over anything resembling the doctor's. Evading an argument had never left McCoy so disappointed.

Outside of their little hideaway, his pricked ears caught a noise that didn't sound like a your average, run-of-the-mill gust or groan. More of a rustle. Possibly an intruder. "Hang on," whispered McCoy, clipped and anxious. Spock didn't move a muscle.

Inching slowly towards the entrance, McCoy peered around, his arms thrumming with anticipation. He remained like that, unsure but poised for attack, for a full six minutes before lowering his guard.

"Coast is clear," he sighed with relief, doubling back to his patient. "We ought to get movin', anyhow."

He bent down, patting Spock's cheek. "Up an' at 'em," he called when there was no immediate stirring. "I know it's tough but-"

The skin beneath his fingertips felt unbearably cold, the color of it ashen. On a terrible hunch, McCoy slid them to the Vulcan's neck, desperate to find a weak, threading pulse.

 _Nothing,_ absolutely nothing. Only the awful stillness.

"Spock!" McCoy shouted raggedly. He didn't care if the enemy heard. He picked the Vulcan up by the shoulders, shaking him roughly. He smacked him across the face, _hard,_ praying this was some crazy healing trance and Spock would wake, stagger up and lecture him on the advantages of his alien biology. Fuck, McCoy would even let him if it meant-

Gut-lurching defeat stuck him between the ribs, stole his breath, watching as Spock's neck lolled backwards at the assault, listless as a rag-doll.

"No, _no, no-"_  

Futilely, he begged, tamping down on the dreadful urge to scream his frustration at the heavens.In despair, McCoy clasped the body to his chest, cursing in every language he knew. Thick streams of tears burned at his cheeks, an unseemly burst of emotion that Spock would have chided-

"Sorry," he choked out, angry and bitter and battling a grief so potent he ached with it. "Sorry, I couldn't-"

 _Save you,_ McCoy rasped soundlessly, wrenching his eyes open. The ceiling of his temporary, Yorktown quarters hovered above. The air was no longer bleak and freezing, but stifling under the weight of his blanket.

"Shit," McCoy gasped, scrubbing a hand over his face. It came away smudged with sweat.

Grinding his molars, McCoy forced himself up through sheer force of will. He sat like that for a good ten minutes, simply trying to get his bearings straight.

The dream was a lie - Spock had survived. That green-blooded hobgoblin was still kicking, too stubborn to die, and free to annoy McCoy another day.

If only he could convince his pounding heart that this was the unequivocal truth.

"Bullshit," McCoy spat aloud. "No fucking way am I getting up in the middle of the goddamn _night-"_

Even as he said it, his boots were halfway on.

*

*

*

*

Restlessness after an ordeal like this came as no surprise. If McCoy were to hazard a guess, probably 70% of the crew had succumbed to pervading exhaustion, while the other 30% most likely lay awake, too wound to sleep.

 _God, now I'm_ thinking _in analytical terms! I spent too much time with-_

Speak of the devil. Apparently the first officer fit into the latter category, the door to Spock's temporary quarters swishing open a lot quicker than expected.

"Leonard?" Spock wondered at his arrival. The use of his name sent a brief shudder down the doctor's spine.

"House call," McCoy greeted curtly, shouldering past him and striding into the faintly lit room. Confidence was key, after all.

"House call?" Spock repeated, dripping with incredulity.

McCoy cleared his throat. "Just making the rounds, seeing that everyone's settled," he lied, lacing his hands behind his back.

Spock stared evenly at him. "I find no rationality in the hour of your visit; but since you have never allowed logic to dictate your actions before, by all means, proceed." He sat on the edge of the bed with the patience of a someone accommodating an incorrigible toddler. "I will defer to your dubious medical practices."

"For that, I oughta give you a full physical," McCoy grumbled, eyeing the unmade bed with dismay. "Hey. Remember a couple hours ago when I ordered you to rest?"

"Forgive my impudence, Captain McCoy." Spock lifted a single brow, arms crossed defiantly. "I was meditating. An exercise I consider far more restful."

At McCoy's impatient goading, Spock relented and gracefully swung his legs onto the bed, using his elbows for support. "How does the crew fair?" he asked casually.

"Well enough, I s'ppose. All treated and accounted for," McCoy answered - which, while not strictly untrue, was mostly an attempt to cover his ass.

Spock nodded. "I sat with Nyota after my release from medbay. What she witnessed under Krall's imprisonment was greatly upsetting, but she has responded to talking and physical contact."

"I'm sure a lover's touch works better than any ole doctor's," McCoy conceded with a small, roguish smile.

"Lt. Uhura and I are no longer romantically involved," Spock reminded. "That does not automatically mean our affection for one another has lessened."

McCoy's eyes widened.

"Jesus, no, o' course. I-" He gestured vaguely. _"Assumed_ you two had, yanno. Kissed and made up?

Eyebrow arched at the Earth colloquialism, Spock said dryly, "Life-threatening circumstances could not resolve our differences, it seems."

Averting his eyes, which McCoy suspected might otherwise betray a glint of fierce emotion, Spock continued, "But she is dear to me and I should like to help her heal from this however I am able. Mine and Christine's combined efforts appeared to have comforted her."

"Christine Chapel? My head nurse?" McCoy remarked with interest.

"Indeed. I have much admiration for the woman. Her ability to offer care and assurance indubitably surpasses my own."

 _Obviously._ Yet rather than comment on the Vulcans' reputation for aloofness, McCoy assured, "Hey, don't sell yourself short. Fact that you're sticking by your ex in her time of need is more than most might do," practically wincing at the words' awkward exit.

"Your human mating customs never cease to astound me," Spock deadpanned, and ah, _there_ was the insult. Familiar ground for them, at least.

Returning to the physical, McCoy prodded along his patient's abdomen. "Are you experiencing any pain?"

"Light, lingering discomfort," said Spock mildly, blinking at the doctor's severe glare. "Meditation allows me to suppress it."

 _"Uh huh._ And lemme riddle you this: if you had a strain of Rigelian fever that could easily be cured, would you ignore that, too?"

"Since the two situations are not even remotely comparable, I fail to-"

"Lie down," McCoy barked, pushing on his sternum. He touched Spock without thinking, a habit from being stranded on that planet, where hesitation would have only wasted time they couldn't afford.

Careful to avoid skin-to-skin contact, he shifted fabric aside, exhaling harshly through his nose. Even in the dim light, McCoy saw the thin, raised patch of skin that had scarred, because the wound had been left for too long, improperly treated with the meager medieval tools on Jaylah's ship. He simply wasn't accustomed to seeing that after handing his patients a clean bill of health.

Hardly noticeable to anyone with an untrained eye, yet to McCoy, it might as well have been blaring evidence of his failure.

"Sometimes, _sometimes_ I really hate the lot of a physician," he seethed, knuckles white atop the bed. "We're only as good as our tech and tools make us. Without 'em, what are we- what can we-"

"Doctor, I do not understand," said Spock softly, brow knitting together. "You speak with self-deprecation, but without your medical prowess, I would have perished."

A fact McCoy was keenly aware of, thanks, and in no need of reminder.

"You, too, should rest," Spock pressed. "You are not a machine, but an organic life-form - and plainly tired, might I add."

"Ain't medical assessments _my_ prerogative, Mr. Spock?"

"It is a reasonable request, doctor."

Of course, Spock was right, and damn him for it. Pinching the bridge of his nose, McCoy released the pent-up stress and aggravation stored in his shoulders, the muscles loosening with a weary exhale.

"Yeah, and as you like to constantly remind me, our human minds aren't always reasonable in their response."

When he opened his eyes - had they shut? - Spock's disquieting gaze was dissecting him like a microorganism under a high-powered lens. "Have you been suffering REM interruptions?"

"Bad dreams, ya mean?" McCoy snorted. "Wouldn't expect a Vulcan to pick up on that. Aren't you guys incapable of dreaming?"

"Vulcans do not dream," Spock sniffed in affirmation. "However, as you have pointed out at every possible opportunity, I _am_ half human."

Only this hobgoblin could pack so much grudging into a benign statement. "Is that your overly wordy way of admitting you've had nightmares?"

"A rare, perturbing occurrence. I understand why you would be vexed by their presence."

Well, they could concur on that front: Nightmares were a nasty business. He pondered, with a distant sort of curiosity, what someone who suppressed fear might find frightening.

"Are your dreams related to what occurred during our time in the nebula?" asked Spock with a perceptiveness that had the doctor's frayed nerves spasming.

"Why so damn nosy all of a sudden?" snapped McCoy.

Spock's brow skyrocketed. "Your defensiveness suggests that my assumptions are not unfounded."

McCoy threw his hands up, declaring the examination over. "Alright already. If you have the strength to sass, you should survive. More's the pity."

Ignoring his flagrant display, Spock inquired, "Is introspection of recents events what is bothering you, too?" so clinical that it set his teeth on edge.

"And what if it is?" McCoy hissed harsher than intended. "You almost died on my watch, you walking computer bank! Am I allowed a bit of emotional, illogical reaction to that?"

"Leonard," Spock spoke calmly, the stern yet soothing cadence of his voice reluctantly lowering the doctor's hackles. "I am mending adequately. As you have ascertained."

Realization struck Spock, presenting a hypothesis: "You are more relaxed when you can be assured of my health?"

Quite a broad, uncomplicated way of surmising things, and McCoy was more than happy to correct the flaw in his reasoning- But then Spock, prim as could be, said, "You should stay the night," and his brain short-circuited.

McCoy sputtered ineloquently. "Come _again?"_

"You require sleep, and being nearby alleviates your concern," said Spock smoothly. "Therefore, it makes sense that you remain in close proximity."

"Are you out of your Vulcan mind?!"

Guilelessly, Spock tilted his head, looking adorabl- fuck, never mind.

"Have I erred in my logic?"

"Forget it, Spock," McCoy muttered scathingly. "Your logic proves faultless as ever."

"The tone which you have employed suggests that statement isn't sincere."

Hiding his smile, McCoy feigned irritation. "Just get some damn shut-eye. Doctor's orders."

Knowing he would regret this in the morning, he scanned the temporary quarters, finally grabbing a padded armchair and sliding it over. He sank down with a sigh, shucked off his boots, and propped his feet on top of the bed.

"Would you not be more comfortable in a bed?" Spock questioned as he passed him a portion of blanket.

"I'm perfectly fine," McCoy assured swiftly, thankful his slight blush couldn't be seen. "Could sleep on a row of stalactites at this point."

"I believe you have confused stalactites with stalagmites. The latter are columns formed by salt-"

_"Spock!"_

"Yes?"

"Go the hell to sleep."

*

*

*

*  
The night after, McCoy dreamt again, this time reliving a less dire memory: He was eight-years-old, the Georgian sun blaring down on him through the trees. His pa had decided to take him hunting in the woods, show him the ropes, bond with his boy.

Except Leonard despised everything from the weight of the gun in his hands to the sight of the poor, unsuspecting deer who was to be shot for pure sport. Uncertainly, his finger toyed with the trigger, his intestines knotted with guilt and indecision, and the heat was no help-

Like a landslide of shape and color, the dream tilted, twisted, and he was on the enterprise, the corridor full of desecrated, dying crew, his heart bursting with sorrow and vengeance, the killer responsible lurking behind any corner-

Another pitch, and he was at the mouth of a cave, aiming out at the noises, holding his breath while Spock's jagged, uneven ones echoed off the walls. The prone body behind him lay defenseless, as heedless of his fate as that deer, and McCoy was yet again the hunter, weapon clenched between his sweaty fingers, but also a savior.

_Wasn't he?_

The queasy sensation hadn't left him after he awoke, and no amount of breakfast, cheery conversation, or party planning could seem to chase it away.

At any rate, he hadn't let the lingering ill-effects of the nightmare hamper the celebration. Jim was having a good time, as was the crew, and hell, so was McCoy - he would be having an even better time, moreover, if he could relocate the lousy bartender that had abandoned him to his solitary corner.

Solitude or no, it was self-imposed; upon hearing footsteps creep up from behind, McCoy flipped his finger at whoever disturbed him, and received a dull, "If I am not mistaken, a rather unbecoming Earth gesture for someone of your rank, doctor."

"Oh, s'you," McCoy grunted. "I'm off-duty, celebrating a friend's birthday, and you've come to lecture on propriety?"

"That wasn't my intention," Spock assured, claiming the seat aside of him. McCoy couldn't honestly say he mind, which kind of pissed him off. "When I realized your absence from the festivities, I sought you out."

"Hmph, and you didn't even need to use a mineral tracking necklace," McCoy teased, making the Vulcan flush a faint green.

The doctor relished the reaction with a deep, throaty chuckle. Poor guy. Now that he had this ammo up his sleeve, McCoy might never let Spock live it down.

"Buy you a drink?" he offered, scarcely resisting a flinch. _Yeesh,_ what a line.

Spock merely stared. "Pardon?"

Figures a flirt would be wasted on him, anyway. McCoy pointed at the bar, raising his half-full glass towards the Vulcan.

"Oh. No, thank you," Spock declined politely.

"Suit yourself," McCoy mumbled, swallowing the last of his ale. The tepid liquid flowed sluggishly down his throat, evidence of how long he'd neglected it.

"Something is weighing on your mind," Spock announced, straightforward. "You appear pensive as of late."

"Funny, I don't recall ordering a psyche eval," McCoy groused, oddly good-natured. Blame the alcohol for making him so nice and amendable.

"You may share your thoughts, if you so choose," offered Spock, and the doctor would've done a spit-take had he any drink left. "Humans often desire to divulge matters that affect their mood to a separate party, hoping to speculate a solution, correct?"

Growing annoyed, McCoy debated shooing him away, but - to tell the truth, Spock's company was welcome. A comfort, even (though he'd deny that 'till his dying breath). Furthermore, if anyone might understand his predicament, out of the whole crew, it would be a Vulcan.

He sighed, unsure of where to begin. "Look, not a mood, per se - Tt's just... once you're outta the fray, the stuff you did or _didn't_ do starts to come back you, and I... I ain't used to picking up a weapon and pointing it at someone. Not with - with the intent to kill.

Fist tightening around his empty glass, McCoy scowled. "I'm a doctor, not a soldier."

After listening attentively, Spock met his gaze, and beyond the blankness, a hint of empathy shone.

"Vulcan beliefs condemn violence, as you know. We respect all life, in whatever form," he stated, casting McCoy a significant look. "That is why healers, such as yourself, are revered by my people. Whereas I've found Earth history tends to romanticize its famed warriors."

The slight would have normally incited a rousing cultural debate, but McCoy was still reeling at the "revere" bit. Boy, that Vulcan knew how to make a fella feel special.

"Nevertheless, self-defense is taught as being practical. Violence for the sake of violence is illogical; yet sometimes, to preserve other lives, we understand the need to use it as a last resort. Certainly, in your case, any force or intent of force was meant to preserve our lives, and therefore, a necessary breach of morals."

"Very kind of you to say," said Bones gravely, and clutched meaningfully at his chest. "I know it must've come from the heart."

He laughed without restraint when those tranquil eyes hardened.

"There's no need for insults, doctor," Spock replied coolly. "I assure you, my conclusion is entirely based in mindful assessment."

"Mhm. I bet," McCoy hummed, burying his fondness as the elusive barkeep returned to its post, and pondering if Spock might be convinced to join him for a drink after all.

*

*

*

*

"So I brace myself, and I ask him, 'What's your favorite color?'"

Jim, Chekhov, and Scotty burst into raucous, undignified giggles, drawing the attention of several other patrons.

"Where'd you learn that medical technique, Bones?" Jim chortled. Bits of sandwich fell from his mouth as he tried to balance eating and laughing, prompting an exasperated Uhura to toss a napkin at him.

"Not in any book," McCoy huffed." "It's in mine now, though."

"As the one on the receiving end of this unreliable practice, I express my deepest condolences for all future patients at your tender mercy," said Spock acerbically, much to Jim's amusement and McCoy's indignation.

"But Mr. Spock," Sulu interjected, completely straight-faced. "What _is_ your favorite color?"

Chekhov choked on his kotleti. Uhura coughed loudly, though it couldn't hide her grin.

Thus commenced a very serious, very academic discussion on what the logical color would be. Spock, the killjoy, provided no clues whatsoever.

Even with the new Enterprise under construction, old habits trickled into their routines, including sharing meals together. Uhura had suggested a little café for lunch today, and while they finished up, Scotty inquired about Spock and McCoy's experiences on the planet, curious to see how they differed from his own.

McCoy breezed through the tale, with occasional input or dissent from Spock. They were nearing the end of the lunch hour, and there wasn't much point in prolonging a story that didn't hinge on the specifics. When they reached part about the cave, though, Spock stiffened minutely.

Nobody noticed, except McCoy, who had been watching too closely too miss it (and the less he wondered about why that was, the better). But he had the decency to at least wait until they were alone to address the Vulcan.

"Now what's got your knickers in a knot, Mr. Spock?"

Distracted, Spock started at the sudden inquiry, and McCoy enjoyed, perhaps too much, the slight furrow that formed between those upswept brows before carefully smoothing out.

Lips thin, Spock began, "During your rendition of our time on Altamid, I noted that you neglected to mention..." He halted. "My lapse in control."

It took a moment for McCoy to puzzle out what in the hell he was referring to, but then it  Spock was asking why he hadn't let slip about the laugh.

Frankly, the detail was minor enough to gloss over. He could easily play it off as him forgetting.

What he couldn't ignore was how Spock always tailored his words to be as exact as possible, and the use of _neglected_ implied that he had presumed that McCoy had meant to expose it. "No," he balked. "Why would I?"

Spock leveled him with a bland look. "You have never before resisted pointing out my...emotional tendencies. Relished in it, even."

"Hardly the same thing." Honestly a little offended by the lack of faith, McCoy griped, "Spock, you were _delirious_. Of course you couldn't maintain the typical Vulcan control! It's Biology 101, nothin' to be ashamed of."

Spock nodded slowly, and McCoy groaned, a stab of sympathy hit him smack dab in the big ole heart.

"But it would've been shameful for you anyway, wouldn't've?" The silence confirmed what he'd already gathered. "See, that's why I kept it between us. I respect you too much."

He sensed more than saw the shift in Spock's demeanor, the imperceptible knot of tension seeping from his shoulders. "...Thank you," said Spock, gratefully. Adding, as if an afterthought, "I am pleased it was you, then, who bore the delirium with me."

To that, McCoy had no suitable thing to say; it was all he could to keep his mouth from hanging agape. Spock took his leave, and McCoy headed for a medical lecture, his mind abuzz with anything but recent breakthroughs in radiation burn treatment.

On reflection, there might have been a more personal component to his secrecy. He could still hear the sound in his memory - Spock's laughter, raw and unshackled, gentle and pleasant. Few, if any, had gotten the chance to witness such a rare treasure - and even under such harrowing circumstances, McCoy couldn't regret that now this was _his,_ and his alone, to covet and protect.

Right around the moment this revelation hit was when McCoy realized his inescapable infatuation with the Enterprise's first officer, and simultaneously, that he was knee deep in shit's creek without a paddle.

*

*

*

*  
Another week passed uneventfully, and truly, McCoy savored the lull in activity. Give him a functional starbase over treacherous space any day.

The door to his quarters chimed, and he granted entrance on a whim, expecting Jim or Scotty (either of them with the promise of booze) at this hour.

Instead Spock stepped inside, posture rigid. McCoy glared warily at his approach.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" he bit out.

Deliberately dismissing the dread in the doctor's tone, Spock declared, "I have come for an unscheduled follow-up."

Unconvinced, the doctor appraised him with a scoff. "Lying, are we, Mr. Spock? Here I thought such deceit above you."

"I only exaggerated," Spock waved away. "I had to resort to such measures, what with your unclear motivations for avoiding me."

McCoy stiffened, but held his ground. Grunting inarticulately, he busied himself with rearranging the medical tools and data PAADs scattered across his table.

"Do you deny this accusation?"

"Permission to speak to counsel?" McCoy inquired sardonically. The expression on Spock was unappreciative, to say the least. "Christ, you should have been a prosecutor. Nothing like an impenetrable Vulcan stare to drag a confession from someone-"

If his species allowed themselves to appear exasperated, Spock would be overflowing with it. "Doctor, please refrain from your deflective, unnecessary banter. I have come to determine why you have lately deemed my company intolerable."

"Good luck," sneered McCoy, taking a perverse pleasure in the tiny act of spite.

Undeterred, Spock laid out his theory, "Does it pertain to matters we discussed on the evening of the captain's party?" Not missing a beat, "Do you regret sharing the personal information with me?"

"No," McCoy clarified sharply. And then glared, because damn that sneaky hobgoblin, now he would have to elaborate. "Maybe I...didn't exactly confide everythin' that was bothering me."

"Ah," Spock comprehended. Almost in admonishment, "I cannot assist if I do not fully understand the problem."

Problem? What problem? McCoy nearly griped. Nah, too childish for his tastes. Time to start firing difficult questions of his own: "Why're you so keen on helping, anyway?"

"Because I have much regard for you, Leonard," Spock stated flatly. "As I assumed was self-explanatory at this point."

"And how can you be sure you have the capacity to help?" McCoy rebutted, proud of how it curbed Spock's offense, leaving him momentarily perplexed.

"Nevertheless, I should like to try," asserted Spock, the obstinate bastard. _"Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we oft might win, for fearing to attempt."*_

 _"Okay,_ okay." McCoy rolled his eyes. "Spare me the bard."

Raking a fist through his hair, the doctor considered how to get Spock off his ass without spilling his guts all over the floor. He settled on the truth, for the most part; and if he kept a couple details in the dark, well, the Devil would never know.

"Spock, I..." He paused, forcing himself to retract from the gaze trained on him with flaying curiosity. "When it was you and me in that cave, I knew there was a chance we'd be found, probably captured or killed. And if someone attacked us, while we were weak and separated and you were already slipping away-"

McCoy swallowed a thick, bitter helping of what he'd felt then crawling up his throat. "I wouldn't have hesitated," he confessed. "I was ready, because if that happened, I would have fought tooth an' nail. Which, _heh_ , given our prospects, ain't that figurative."

Spock absorbed these words in silence, turning them over inside his head. "And this willingness frightens you," he said at last, not quite a question.

Hell, Bones wasn't in any position to refute.

"But as before, your intentions were honorable," Spock maintained. "There is no shame in fighting to protect-"

"No, there ain't." McCoy's snort bordered on strangled, perhaps a wee hysterical. "None whatsoever. Don't you worry, I got the hang of it eventually. And by God, I'd probably do it again."

Spock blinked, observing McCoy like he would a particularly puzzling equation. "Then... Why do you insist on letting these emotions trouble you when there is no-"

Slamming his palm against the table, McCoy snarled, "Because, you obtuse hobgoblin, when a man throws his goddamn beliefs out the window at the drop of a hat, there's got to be some strong feelings involved!"

A bolt of shock penetrated Spock's placidity before he quickly regained composure, yet he remained taken aback by the outburst. Meanwhile, McCoy tidied his jostled tools, using the distraction to collect himself. He began, quite unconsciously, chuckling at his unruly behavior, the humor lost on the half-Vulcan in his presence.

Mirth fading, McCoy's flare of temper burned out. "I'm a coward," he admitted solemnly.

Spock frowned. "You are not that, either-"

"'Course I am," McCoy cut off. Spock glanced sharply at him, noting his voice, how coarse and heavy it'd become. Leaning forward, McCoy's words blew air over that impassive face struggling to remain stoic against the assault, "What do you know?"

Dark eyes swept over his face, quietly discerning. "Are you no longer referring to-"

McCoy surged forward, swallowing the unfinished sentence. The kiss was rough, sloppy, served hot and bitter like Romulan ale - Spock gasped into it, bewildered. McCoy persisted, stealing the opportunity to slip his tongue into the all-too willing mouth, teasing and coaxing until Spock's jaw loosened, eyes falling shut as he gave into the temptation, and reciprocated.

Tentative hands drifted up to his shoulder blades, slow and exploratory, but with a gratified moan from McCoy they grew bold, fingers digging into the cloth of his shirt.

Unable to resist, McCoy shifted to Spock's waist, thumbing the hollow of his hips before slithering underneath the hem of his shirt, slick as honey. Spock exhaled at the chilled touch against his skin, arching into it.

Eventually, Spock tore himself away for air, and McCoy sucked in an eager gulp. "That Vulcan heart o' hours is beating rather fast," he breathed, resting his forehead against the other's.

"Yes," agreed Spock, equally flustered.

McCoy fought a satisfied grin. "Are you experiencing any pain?"

"I am experiencing..." Spock's eyelids fluttered. "Something."

Laughing, McCoy tested the waters further, tracing a hand along sensitive vertebrae. Spock twitched when he reached his lower back and again slipped under the shirt's hem, jolting when the doctor splayed out his fingers, warm palm caressing bare flesh. The pulse beneath McCoy's fingers raced, increasing rapidly.

Triumphant, he tucked his nose beneath one of those pointed ears, disguising his sly smile with a deep inhale. "So it's an old-fashioned, heavy petting session that gets you all hot under the collar, hmm?" he teased.

"Imprecise," Spock nitpicked, shuddering as McCoy pinched him in retaliation. "I seem to show a distinct responsiveness to _your_ touch."

This comment sent a pleasurable sensation flooding through his veins, fed straight into his ego - and another sensitive place, at that.

"What is this?" McCoy guffawed, a school-boy giddiness bubbling in his chest. "Some underhanded tactic to seduce me with your logic?"

A smile ghosted over Spock's lips, so brief and smug McCoy swore he imagined it.

"Do you concede that my regard for you is sincere?" Spock demanded, with a condescending lilt that should definitely not be endearing.

"Guess I never _disbelieved_ it," McCoy mumbled, a tad sheepish. "You are a piss-poor liar."

That remark earned him the skeptical raise of a brow. McCoy smirked, adjusting his grip on Spock's hips to pull them flush against each other. "Now. Gotta prove that I'm sincere, too, don't I?"

Without waiting for a reply, he cupped a hand over a green-tinted cheek and yanked Spock forward, fitting their lips together. Spock yielded to the action, moving his mouth against his as they fell into a languid rhythm that effortlessly evolved into something hungrier, ending when he sunk his teeth into a tender bottom lip.

"I find this method of confirming your sincerity most unusual," Spock murmured as they parted, fairly bemused. "But I will defer to your questionable experience in these matters."

"Shut up," McCoy grunted, and rather than wait for Spock to comply, did so himself. It was a success well worth repeating.

 

**Author's Note:**

> *Act I, Scene IV of Shakespeare's Measure for Measure - also the same play Spock quotes in Beyond
> 
> Thanks for reading - and if you liked, let me know down below!


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